


Anything to Keep You Happy

by BlindSwandive



Series: SPN Kink Bingo 2019 fills [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Frustrated!Sam, Gender or Sex Swap, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Gender Issues, M/M, Scent Kink, Sex-swap hex, Sharing Clothes, girl!Sam, protective!Dean, raspberries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: Still stuck under a sex-swap curse, Sam is getting frustrated with his body and the world.  Dean tries to make things a little more comfortable for him.  Continuation from “Good Girl” but stands alone.For SPN Kink Bingo, filling the square Clothes Sharing.





	Anything to Keep You Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the beautiful peeps on Discord who helped me think through the kinks here and who keep encouraging me, and to [Interstitial](http://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial) for kind beta!!

“Five days,” Sam complained, “ _five days,_ Dean, and still—”

Sam gestured up and down her—his—well, _her_ body helplessly.

Dean had to bite down on the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. He knew Sam was upset, and he didn’t want to be a dick about it, but when she got angry and her voice rose in volume—and pitch—she sounded so much like she had when she was a bitchy teen boy who hadn’t hit puberty yet. It didn’t help that her clothes were hanging loose and bunched on her, like all those times they’d raided the lost and found bin at Pastor Jim’s church after a growth spurt.

Something soft and warm came over Dean, too fond to allow into words. It was hard not to see Sam in soft focus, sometimes, hazy, with all the hard edges smoothed out.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sam warned, eyes narrowing.

“Like what?” Dean asked, nudging books around on the nearest tabletop to have somewhere else to put his eyes. Just in case.

“Like I’m some damn little china doll!” Sam fumed. “You’re terrible, you know that? You’re a fucking chauvinist.”

“Sammy,” Dean scolded. He was sorely tempted to make some kind of ‘that time of the month’ joke, but he was pretty sure Sam was armed. Wouldn’t be worth a stab wound. Even if it was really funny.

“Just don’t,” Sam snapped, but the fury was off of it. She was rapidly veering toward a sulk.

Dean suppressed a sigh and closed the distance between them, bumping his knee against one of Sam’s fondly. “Got an idea,” he said, and tried to sound like he was sure it was a good one. “Come on.”

He didn’t take Sam’s hand to lead her down the hall, because he wouldn’t have when Sam had a dick swinging between her legs, and he was pretty sure if he tried now he’d get shanked. But he wanted to.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he was treating Sam differently now he was a she, apart from just the obvious sex stuff. But Sam was smaller than Dean—for the first time in years, really smaller—and that feeling of being the big brother in every sense of the word was on him, seeping through his skin and wrapping around his bones like hot water. It was making all of that chesty macho high-school bullshit flood his system again, and all the old urges to take control, to guard and protect and, yeah, even occasionally baby Sam, were hard to ignore.

He settled for thumping Sam on the back in an appropriately manly gesture of comfort, and led her off to Dean’s room.

\- - -

Sam tried not to let his chagrin show as he followed Dean down the hall toward what he assumed would be an apology-tinged bout of cunnilingus. He knew his temper was getting to him, he knew his nerves were raw, and he knew he was taking it out on Dean today, even though Dean was really being surprisingly mature and chill about the whole situation. He just felt so out of sorts and off balance. 

Peeing was harder. Anal was harder. His hormones were all out of whack, his deodorant was making his armpits itch and peel, and he felt like he was leaking all the time. Everything around him seemed to loom, even though he was still close to six feet tall. He’d even had to abandon shoes, walking around in doubled up socks, and his clothes were being held on with belts, knots, and hope. And he’d had to punch extra holes in the belt.

Yeah, they’d been having a lot of fun exploring the new equipment, but Sam was tired of feeling stuck and helpless about the whole thing.

When they reached Dean’s bedroom, Sam flopped down only slightly melodramatically onto the memory foam, sprawled and listless. He was prepared to lie there and wait to be seduced (even though the thought alone was enough to start him getting wet inside his ill-fitting boxers), but Dean didn’t join him on the bed. He was several feet away, _rustling._

Sam frowned and lifted his head to look. 

Dean was crouched on the floor, rummaging through his dresser drawers haphazardly, now and then tossing the odd item toward the foot of the bed. Sam saw a tattered henley catch on the edge and slide back off onto the ground before dropping his head back to the mattress.

Sam jiggled one foot side to side, useless nervous energy.

“Here we go,” Dean said, finally, standing, turning to face Sam. When he took in Sam’s dead fish impression, he rubbed his mouth, but Sam was pretty sure he caught sight of a grin anyway. 

Sam looked pointedly away, glaring at the ceiling.

“Come on,” Dean said, softer, “don’t be like that.” In his periphery, Sam saw him gathering some of the clothes he’d thrown around up into a pile on the bed, setting them by Sam’s ankle. He stopped his foot.

Dean leaned over him, planting one knee on the bed by his hip, and started unthreading his overlong belt. Sam had to bite back on the urge to smack his hand away; it would be satisfying, probably, but he’d just feel like a dick after. He settled for limp non-participation, instead.

Dean didn’t seem to mind.

When the belt was unbuckled, he didn’t bother unbuttoning or unzipping; a sharp tug was all he needed to slide Sam’s jeans down his hips. His boxers (kept up ’til now by a knot twisted into the waistband) didn’t even put up a fight, just tangled with the denim and abandoned him.

Sam still didn’t look down; he’d had some… odd reactions, getting a look at the curve of his own slim hips, the slight forward lift of his hipbones, the private vee of dark curls where his dick should have been, secreting away all those delicate parts. Dean didn’t seem to need his help anyway. Sam could let him take care of it.

He may have let one ankle tip lazily open when Dean had finished pulling his socked feet free from the rolled cuffs of his jeans, but not as an invitation. Not really. 

(Maybe a little, but whatever.)

He somehow didn’t expect it when Dean started carefully tugging fabric back up over his foot, though. Sam frowned at the ceiling, and when both feet had been slipped into something, snug cuffs hugging each ankle, he finally risked craning his head up to see what on Earth Dean was doing.

“Long underwear,” Dean explained, and sounded almost shy about it. “These ones been tight forever, thought…” He shrugged, tugging them up Sam’s calves without making eye contact. “They should stay up, at least.”

Sam dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling again. He gritted his teeth hard, and willed the burning in his eyes to go down, but when Dean had the fleece-lined longjohns up to his hips, he bent his knees and planted his feet so he could lift his bottom from the mattress to make it easier.

They felt warm, and worn soft. And like they’d stay up.

Sam kept staring up for a little while, until he was sure he wouldn’t say or do anything stupid. Eventually, he managed a small, “Thanks.”

Dean patted Sam on the calf and scooped up one of his hands, tugging until Sam gave in and let Dean help him sit upright on the bed. He folded his legs up under himself, and looked at his knees, plucking at the waffled texture. He still didn’t think he could look Dean in the eye.

“Arms up,” Dean said, and Sam flushed, suddenly filled with vague memories of childhood bedtimes when Dean had been the only one around to help him get changed for bed. _Arms up, Sammy,_ he’d say, and Sam would, even though Dean would inevitably blow raspberries over his belly as soon as he’d got his shirt up halfway, and Sam would scream protests that had felt real, even though he’d known it was going to happen, even though it happened every time.

“Better not blow any fucking raspberries,” Sam warned, and thought he meant it, though he raised his arms obediently overhead. Dean, the very picture of innocence, tugged the top layer off—a plaid button-up that was swimming so bad Sam had had to roll the cuffs up three times and button it clear to the throat just so it didn’t leave his breasts hanging out. No raspberries. 

Sam felt somehow even more out of sorts, letting his arms fall.

“Uh-uh,” Dean said, “that one, too.”

Sam looked down at the long sleeved tee he was wearing. Other than flopping around his wrists, and gaping at the neck, and hanging well down his bottom, it wasn’t so bad.

“Why?”

“‘Cause you been wearing the same one for five days,” Dean said, mouth flattened in disapproval.

“Oh, says the guy who thinks underwear are still good if you turn them inside out,” Sam retorted.

“Yeah, but that ain’t you,” Dean reminded him.

“It’s the only one I’ve got that’s staying on,” Sam said bitterly to his knees.

“Yeah, well, now you’ll have two and we can finally wash that one, okay?” Dean said, waving a henley like a peace offering. “Come on, Sammy, you know you’ll be happier in something clean.”

Sam knew he would. “Why should I believe anything of yours is actually clean?” he said, instead of admitting it. But he raised his arms overhead, anyway.

It occurred to him, when Dean gathered the hem of the shirt into his hands, he could just as easily have taken it off himself. More easily. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was letting Dean do it.

“Just gonna have to trust your big bro,” Dean said, faking up a tone of wisdom and pulling the shirt over Sam’s head. Sam snorted a laugh in spite of himself, which exploded into a shocked yelp when Dean bowled him over, blowing raspberries into his belly.

“Dean—Jesus, you complete—utter—“ Sam scrabbled the rest of the way out of the shirt and swatted at Dean haphazardly, but with absolutely no vim. It was the stupidest thing Dean had done in probably a month, which was saying something, but it felt good to laugh, or at least to try not to laugh, to pretend to be scandalized and irritated. 

Sam shoved at Dean’s head, but Dean just doubled down, cheeks blown squirrel-wide as he made dumb sounds and dotted Sam’s skin with spit, and this time the laugh broke free (sounding unfortunately a lot more like squealing or shrieking than Sam was comfortable with). “Dean, you—you idiot, stop, _stop_ —”

Eventually, Sam resorted to kicking Dean a little harder than necessary to dislodge him, and only slightly guiltily used the resulting breathing room to snatch up the henley Dean had dropped beside him. It was heathered, suitably bland, and had easily half a dozen holes worn along the edges where the collar and cuffs met the body of the shirt, but it was smaller than the one Dean had pulled off of Sam, and cleaner, and that was enough.

He rushed to get inside of it, stuffing his arms through the cuffs and yanking it overhead, but once he was inside and covered he found he was a little reluctant to finish the job. Oh, he poked the top of his head out of the neck, even tugged it enough that his eyes were free to watch Dean for any renewal on the attack front, but the shirt was long enough to shield his damp midsection without having to come completely out of the collar, and that was comforting in a way Sam wasn’t quite sure he’d have been able to explain if he had to.

Partly, it was the warmth. The tip of Sam’s nose was terminally slightly cold in the bunker, always faintly pink when he caught a glimpse of his reflection, and having it safely behind the short band of buttons down the center made him feel it acutely, the way only suddenly being in a warm place can make you feel how cold you had been before. The reflection of his breath back onto his face was creating a little cocoon of heat, soothing and soft.

But more than that was the smell.

There was a layer of mustiness in the fabric that Sam could have done without—the dangers inherent in finally having a dresser you could lose something in for months, he guessed—but underneath it was familiarity condensed. Even washed (he was grudgingly willing to admit it had probably gone into the drawer relatively clean), it still had some faint underlying smell of Dean. 

Sam huffed a breath as subtly as he could, getting the hint of the waterway-friendly detergent he’d insisted on buying once they could afford it (smelled just a little like eucalyptus). Beneath that, persisting through the wash because he’d worn it a thousand times and habit was stronger than soap, were those traces of anything else Dean wore—another huff found his deodorant, another his aftershave. And there at the very bottom, faintest of all, something ineffably _Dean,_ the soft salt smell of his skin, the musk of his scalp, the borrowed sour-sweet smell of the Impala’s leather and gas and the brush of smoke and fire that neither of them ever escaped for long…

“Earth to Sammy.”

Sam blinked, and realized Dean was sitting up again, giving him a bemused look. Self-conscious, he quickly tugged the shirt the rest of the way down and stretched his arms to shake the sleeves into place.

“Thanks,” he said, brusquer than he meant it.

Dean shrugged magnanimously, gave Sam a friendly thump on the knee, and rose to go.

Sam scrambled. “Wait, where are you going?”

Dean gave him an innocent look that Sam got the distinct feeling wasn’t. “What? Just wanted to find you something that fit. Thought I’d head back to the armory, do some target practice…”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t done target practice in a week.”

“Can’t get rusty. No time like the present?” Dean said, but he hadn’t gotten any further from the bed.

 _Right,_ Sam thought. If Dean was going to tease him, he was going to deal with the consequences. And he didn’t seem to be expecting the leg lock around his waist, or the speed with which Sam used it to leverage him crashing back onto the bed.

“Let’s spar instead,” Sam suggested, and started tugging down his (Dean’s—Sam’s—) longjohns.

\- - -

An hour later when they came up for air, Dean strolled to the kitchen, exceedingly pleased with himself, to put together some sandwiches. You needed to keep your strength up when you were sparring.

But when he got back to the bedroom with their food, Sam had apparently been overcome by the workout and was sleeping it off.

She’d slid back on the long underwear and henley, and never had been willing to toe off her goofy thick layers of socks, but she’d also picked Dean’s discarded plaid button-up off the floor. It was wrapped around her shoulders, loose, with one of the empty sleeves clutched in her fist, the other bundled up under her cheek. She was already drooling a little, which Dean would tell her later was gross but found more or less cute as sin.

In her sleep, she shifted, pulling the shirt tighter around her and nuzzling her face down into the sleeve. Dean was content to leave her to it and go eat his sandwich quietly in the kitchen, but then she made a small snuffling sound and sighed his name. _”Dean_ …”

Glad she wasn’t awake to catch him, Dean just gazed down at her for a long moment, letting himself drink in the smallness of her, the comparative fragility, chest tight and full to bursting with affection and the strange, tangled feeling of brother and protector and lover and predator. He’d never live it down if he crawled back into bed with her while she slept, not if she woke back up before he did and realized he’d abandoned a chance to _eat_ just to cuddle her in her sleep.

But maybe he could handle that.

Depositing the tray as quietly as he could on the mess of his dresser, Dean slipped carefully in under the covers behind her, wrapping an arm around her trim little waist, burying his nose in her shaggy mess of hair. 

Whatever Sam looked like, she—he—she was still his, and he’d still tear the world apart to keep her happy.


End file.
